


A World Without You

by larkspyt



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: Epilogue Compliant, M/M, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 04:22:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7876159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkspyt/pseuds/larkspyt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I really think you’re confused about something. We don’t see each other at all. We’re not friends. I wouldn’t even have known the name of your wife if your son hadn’t told my Rose.” Draco tried to protest but Hermione added, “And who’s Harry?”</p><p>Draco blinked. “Harry? Harry Potter?”</p><p>“Who?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A World Without You

Draco Malfoy looked into the uncomprehending eyes of the woman lying prone on the hospital bed. There were many signs that she had once been happy. But the laugh lines and bright green eyes have all but dulled and been abandoned to the tender care of the psychiatric ward at St. Mungo’s. 

She twitched. A line of drool dribbled down her chin. 

Over on the next bed, the woman’s husband slept. He was the more docile of the pair. He didn’t shout or garble. In fact, were it not for his dancing eyes, James Potter would have easily passed as sane. But Draco couldn’t bear to stand any closer to him. The rumours had been true. Harry did look remarkably like his father. 

The woman twitched again. This time, a tear slid down. 

These two shouldn’t be alive. 

Draco bowed his head. He felt a strange warmth on the back of his neck and rubbed at it. “I’m sorry for intruding your peace like this, Mrs. Potter,” he said, “but I need to ask you if you know what’s happened to your son.”

 

Draco lifted his head from the ledger when the little bell hanging above the shop door jingled. It was Hermione. She gave a little start of surprise when she saw him. Understandable. He usually left the managing of the apothecary to Stalby, but he called in sick today. 

“Afternoon,” said Draco, nodding at her. 

“Good afternoon, Malfoy.”

Malfoy? Someone was being a little formal. 

Draco ignored it. It wasn’t like he was the epitome of politeness in front of her all the time. “What brings you down here today? Flu cures for your children? I hear it’s been going around.”

“Sore throat. Your store has the freshest ingredients.”

Draco hummed absently. “I pride myself on them. I have a case of newt eyes and salamander tails just come in if you’re interested.” He turned his attention back to the ledger and was considering a purchase of Horntail spikes when Hermione cleared her throat.

She was wearing a cautious look Draco has not seen directed at him since … well, since the war. Back then, she had been deciding whether or not he could be trusted. For her to look at him like that now was a little insulting. 

“Is something wrong?” said Draco. 

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Come again?”

“Why are you asking after my children?”

Draco stared at her, perplexed. “Are you quite alright?”

“I should be asking you that.”

Draco frowned. “I’ve babysat your children. We’ve camped together for the Quidditch World Cup Finals. We’ve spent bank holiday together at Harry’s. Of course I’d ask after your children.” 

“Malfoy, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Hermione. 

“Is this some kind of prank? Did Harry and Ron put you up to this?”

“Malfoy, please. Stop.”

“What?”

“I really think you’re confused about something. We don’t see each other _at all_. We’re not friends. I wouldn’t even have known the name of your wife if your son hadn’t told my Rose.” Draco tried to protest but Hermione added, “And who’s Harry?”

Draco blinked. “Harry? Harry Potter?”

“Who?”

Draco snorted, certain now it was a prank. “Nice try, Hermione.”

Hermione was wide-eyed. “Maybe it’s your mind that’s tampered with. You should get yourself checked.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me. You’re the one who’s playing.”

“I’m not playing. I don’t know any Harry Potter. I’ve never heard of him.” Hermione left the store in a rush, pushing the door so hard it swung. 

Draco was left gaping behind the counter. This was such a peculiar incident that he found himself drawing a blank. Hermione Granger denying that she knew Harry Potter? It was preposterously hilarious. 

Maybe when he has the evening paper in his lap and a cup of brandy in his hand later, Draco will laugh about it properly and send Hermione a letter demanding what the hell that was about. 

A tap on the window drew his attention back. It was an owl, delivering the _Daily Prophet_. Draco paid the owl and ran a cursory glance over the front page. 

 _The Chosen One Goes on Holiday with Family_ , the headlines declared. Under those words, lips stretched in a wide, cheeky grin and one arm around Ginny Weasley was Neville Longbottom. 

Draco stared at the article for the longest time. He read and re-read the captions, the headlines, the whole bleeding article. There was no mistaking it. Dropping the paper, Draco moved to the small fireplace in his shop. He needed to make a call. 

 

“I’m looking for Potter.”

“Who?”

“Harry Potter.”

“Never heard of him.”

 

“What’s he look like?

“He attend Hogwarts too?”

“Really? Our year?”

“Don’t know who you’re talkin’ bout, mate.”

 

“The man who killed Voldemort.”

“Ah, see, his name ain’t Potter. It’s Long-“

“Does _anyone_ remember Harry Potter?”

“If it’s the Potters you’re looking for, they’re in St. Mungo’s. Psychiatric ward.”

 

Draco extinguished his seventh fire call to the Department of Wizarding Public Records after the attendant insisted, again, that there was no other information on Harry James Potter. 

By the records, Harry Potter died as a baby when Voldemort visited Godric’s Hollow. His death drove his parents to insanity. Hardly anyone remembered him and no one understood why he was relevant.

Draco was about to shut himself in the family library again when his mother came in with the afternoon tea. “What has gotten you so riled up, darling? It’s most unlike you to lose your composure these days.”

“It’s nothing, mother.”

Narcissa set the cups. “You aren’t still hung up on that boy who died, are you?” 

Draco barely refrained from snorting at the irony.

“I don’t understand what you hope to achieve by pursing this,” said Narcissa.

“I told you. Some things just don’t add up,” said Draco. 

“Like what?”

Draco turned away, unsure of how he could explain that _everything_ didn’t add up. Harry did not die as a baby. He lived. He went to school with Draco. He won the war against Voldemort. He saved the world. 

How did Draco suddenly wake up in a world when none of that happened?

 

The first thought that came to mind was that someone had cursed Harry. He was the most celebrated Auror of their time. It wouldn’t be a surprise if some dark wizard tried to vanquish him by some sort of antiquated Dark Magic, which was why Draco searched through the tomes in his family library. 

He was working his way through every shelf, searching for a spell that could erase a wizard’s existence as completely as Harry’s had been. 

But there was nothing of the kind; not even in the oldest manuscripts dictating the foundations of human magic. There were spells to alter perception and circumstances, but only if they were contained. There was no such thing as altering reality itself. 

It was unheard of. Impossible. 

Human magic just didn’t work that way. 

 

Draco pushed his way into The Three Broomsticks and saw Blase Zabini’s waving hand amidst the afternoon crowd. Next to his old schoolmate was a beautiful girl with Blaise’s sharp eyes and dark hair, who gave Draco an appreciative glance as Draco joined their table. 

Draco made a point of avoiding her eyes as he reached over and grasped Blaise’s shoulder.

“Good to see you, Draco. I believe you remember Desiree.”

“Of course. She’s grown beautifully,” said Draco. 

“No hitting on my daughter,” said Blaise, smiling. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Where’s Goyle?”

“Running late as usual,” said Blaise. “He might not be coming at all if he doesn’t hand in his paperwork in time. He’s always been rather scatterbrained.”

“‘Stupid’ is the word you’re looking for.” Draco ordered some Muggle lager and raised an eyebrow when Blaise made a face. “What?”

“When did you start drinking such swill?”

“A friend introduced it to me. It grows on you. By the way, did you get the books I wanted?”

Blaise shook his head. “Sorry, I tried. Most of the ones you asked for were burnt during the Salem era. The only copies are all at Hogwarts. Why do you need such old texts anyway? Are you thinking of pursuing history now?”

“I might,” said Draco evasively. “I have a lot of time on my hands.”

“You should use that time to restrain that wife of yours. She made the tabloids again.”

Draco shrugged. “What Astoria does in her spare time doesn’t bother me.”

“Why not divorce her?”

“Scorpius loves his mother.”

“What about you? Don’t you need a lover?”

Draco saw Desiree’s sharp eyes looking at him and said, “We’re _Slytherins_.”

Blaise let out a bark of laughter. “That’s Draco for you.”

The conversation lulled slightly when Goyle arrived with quills sticking out of his pockets, and nearly upsetting Blaise’s Firewhiskey with his elbow. Goyle worked for the _Evening Times_ , a subsidiary of the _Prophet_ , which was why Draco never read the _Times_ any more. Goyle planted himself next to Draco, shoulders in a tired slump.

“Sorry. The paper’s been driving me mad,” he said.

“I tell you, they’ve got it in for former Death Eaters. It doesn’t matter that some of us never took the Mark. As long as our fathers followed Voldemort, we’re screwed for life,” said Blaise with an ugly sneer.

Draco leaned back and tuned him out. He was in no mood to listen to another one of Blaise’s rants. 

He’s made no headway in his research. Whoever had done this to Harry must be a powerful wizard indeed and it was impossible to pin down possible suspects. It wasn’t as if Dark Wizards signed their names on a list. But what Draco couldn’t understand was why he was the only one who remembered Harry. Shouldn’t it be the people who were closest to him who noticed his disappearance?

Draco’s tried contacting them, but Hermione wasn’t the only one who thought he’d gone round the twist. Ginny Weasley told him to stop bothering her and to stay away from her family. Hagrid recommended a large mug of ale to cure his ‘delusion’. Luna Lovegood said she was glad someone else had imaginary friends. 

Above all, Draco couldn’t understand why someone would take Harry Potter out of the equation only to replace him with -

“- Longbottom.”

Draco snapped out of his reverie. “What?”

“I was just saying that the paper’s pushing for more gossip about Longbottom,” said Goyle.

“Yeah, the Chosen One,” said Blaise, voice dripping with scorn.

“You might want to be more careful, Zabini. You don’t want to go back to Azkaban, do you?” said Goyle. 

“You’ve been to Azkaban before, father?” said Desiree. “You never said.”

“Your mother gets upset whenever I bring it up at home,” said Blaise. “I tried to assassinate Longbottom once. Nearly succeeded but that git has miraculous power on his side in do-or-die situations. Old Magic loves that prat.”

“Old Magic?” said Draco.

“Natural magic laws plus preconscious magical ability. Longbottom is practically protected by it, seeing how he’s virtually useless with everyday spells but still somehow managed to defeat Voldemort.”

Draco leaned over. “Can you tell me more about it?”

Blaise scratched his head. “Not really. I only know about it because my father used to talk about it. But those single-copy books you were looking for, they probably have more information about it.”

“Why are you suddenly interested in Old Magic?” said Goyle.

Draco faked a noncommittal shrug. “Might come in handy, don’t you think? Having that sort of magic on your side.”

Blaise laughed. “Draco, trying to get Old Magic on your side is like trying to get Luck on your side. It can’t be done.”

“Then how did Longbottom do it?”

Blaise shook his head. “Some people are just born with it. I guess you would call them ‘blessed’.”

 

Neville Longbottom. The Chosen One. 

No matter how many times Draco heard it, he felt like snarling. He settled for glaring at the girl who dared bring it up until she broke down and ran out of the Great Hall. 

Next to him, Scorpius sighed. “Father, I don’t mind you coming to visit for the New Year but could you refrain from making my housemates cry?”

“It’s not my fault your peers have the spines of snakes. For all its enviable qualities, its spine is not one of them,” said Draco, thumb slipping over the Slytherin insignia embossed on his goblet. 

It was rare for parents to visit their children at Hogwarts during the holidays at the end of the year. But Astoria was touring Italy with Julio Whatshisface and Draco missed his son. If only Scorpius would consent to a private meal in his guest quarters, Draco would not have to deal with this rampant ignorance. 

Draco was very grateful Professor Longbottom, the Herbology professor, Hero of the Prophecy, Champion of the Wizarding World, has taken leave to spend the holidays with his family. According to Scorpius, people loved to fawn over him and request anecdotes of his heroism during his schooling days. If that happened in his presence, Draco might punch Longbottom square in the face, just to feel that smug mug bruising under his fist. 

It was supposed to be Harry wearing those shoes. 

Harry hated celebrity. He took everything he achieved with a ‘so what?’ attitude. So he rescued his friends and classmates on a yearly basis since he was 11, so he successfully trained a group of teenagers to fight in preparation of one of the biggest wars in Wizarding history, so he received offers from three major league Quidditch teams to be their Seeker, so he was the best Auror in the department, so he saved the Wizarding world. So what?

Harry didn’t care about all that. He would defend his privacy with such vengeance that the papers could only get photos of him when he allowed it. 

Longbottom was no Harry Potter. That much was evident by the large portrait of him hanging in the Gryffindor Tower. 

“Stuff it,” was what Draco said to it when the portrait tried speaking to him. His response had shocked a few second-year Gryffindors coming out of the common room. The portrait itself had been at a loss for words. 

Scorpius sighed again. “I understand you’re upset at having been on the losing side of the war but must you show your contempt for Professor Longbottom so blatantly? It looks bad.”

Draco made a face. “Don’t tell me you like the git.”

Scorpius snorted. “He’s a prat. He struts around like we’re all indebted to him.”

“Let me tell you, he used to be so incompetent, he was strung up on the chandelier by Cornish pixies,” said Draco. Scorpius peered at him with interest. “In his first year, his granny had to send him a Remembrall because he kept forgetting things, but he could never remember what it was he forgot.” Scorpius bit his lip to stifle a silly grin. “He was so ridiculously terrible at Potions he destroyed six cauldrons during his time in the dungeons; one for every year and one during his OWL.” Scorpius looked near bursting now. “Before the Yule Ball, someone caught him ballroom dancing. By himself.”

The large hall echoed with Scorpius’s laughter. The rest of the Slytherin table stared while Draco smirked. Scorpius wiped away his tears. “Alright then, how did he go from that to defeating the greatest dark lord of all time?”

Draco scowled. “He didn’t.”

“What?”

“Humour me for a bit. What are the ridiculous titles Longbottom’s been given?”

“I don’t remember them all, but there’s the Chosen One. And Hero of the Prophecy, Saviour of the Wizarding World, Champion of Wizarding Britain, the New Hope…” Scorpius trailed off at the black look on Draco’s face. 

Draco shook his head. “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. What about the Boy Who Lived?”

“Who’s that?”

Draco’s gaze softened. That one was still Harry’s then. “That’s the title of the man who killed Voldemort and saved us all.”

Scorpius frowned. “If Professor Longbottom wasn’t the one, why does everyone say he is?”

“Because they’re idiots.”

Scorpius cast a dubious look at him. “Then what happened to the Boy Who Lived? Why doesn’t he step forward and tell the truth?”

“Because he’s a prat who doesn’t like glory.”

“Sorry, I’m having a hard time believing such a person exists.”

“I felt that too growing up next to him,” said Draco with a small smile. 

“So where is he now?”

Draco fell silent. He could feel Scorpius’s eyes on him and they were too kind; the kindness of a son indulging his father’s delusions. Draco felt overcome with sadness. His fingers dug hard into the goblet. 

_For whom did you save the world if not them? And if so, what is the point if they don’t remember you?_

“That’s what I’m going to find out.”

The huge bell hanging at the front of the hall clanged, sending a ruckus of cacophonous noise through the room. People sprung up from their seats and congratulated one another. They hugged, cheered, and shook hands. Draco knocked his goblet against Scorpius’s and held it up. 

“Happy New Year, son.”

“Happy New Year, father,” said Scorpius. He drank and left to wish his friends.

Drank sipped his Firewhiskey and shivered when the back of his neck prickled with warmth. He turned to observe the school staff at the high table. Draco’s eyes were drawn to Severus Snape, whom Draco had been surprised, at first, to find alive. The shock had passed after seeing him several times. Of course, Draco questioned why his godfather was still alive. Alive and looking well with a redhead Muggle Studies professor as his wife to boot. It added to the mystery no one else was able to see. 

But it was New Year’s night and Draco was tired and he was glad to see his godfather happy. He wished he could say that much for himself. “To being happy,” he murmured, raising his goblet to no one in particular, “and a happy new year.”

“ _Happy New Year to you too, Drake._ ”

Draco’s eyes widened. The dark-haired man sitting next to him laughed and knocked shoulders with him, his round-framed glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, bright green eyes sparkling with mirth. 

Draco’s mouth became dry. 

“Harry?”

 

It was an illusion. No, it was a memory. Exactly a year ago. 

 

By happenstance, Draco bumped into Potter at a pub in New York during New Year’s Eve. Draco had slipped out of party at a nearby hotel and Potter was in the city for an Auror’s conference. Or so he claimed. 

“This is the first time I’ve not spent New Year’s with my family since I got engaged,” said Potter. Draco hummed dispiritedly, deciding not to mention that his wife was just next door but that he had no wish to return to her before midnight. He and Astoria had taken separate rooms. He was so glad he had left Scorpius back in Exeter with his mother. 

“Have you been well?”

Draco looked up. That was a loaded question if Draco meant to answer it genuinely. Usually, he wouldn’t, but this was Potter. Draco crossed his arms on the counter and buried his face into them. “What do you want me to say?”

Potter smiled and ordered two lagers for them. It was a Muggle pub, after all. 

“What about you,” said Draco. “I can only imagine that everything is perfect with you.”

Potter chuckled. “One day, you’ll believe me when I say I’m not as perfect as you think.”

_You’re as perfect as they get._

Potter smiled and rubbed at his neck. “Recently, I’ve been getting this strange feeling that something bad is going to happen. Everyone keeps telling me I’m just being paranoid. My hypersensitive Auror senses flaring up and all that. But I can’t get rid of the feeling that…that I’m on the edge and the winds are blowing, and I’m about to fall off. I just don’t know when.”

Draco reached out a faltering hand, unsure if it was okay to give Potter a sympathetic grip of the shoulder. It was what he would do with any friend. But was Potter a friend? The last time they met, they were acquaintances at best. With this conversation hanging between them, Draco wasn’t sure anymore. 

Thankfully, their lagers arrived. The drink wasn’t as bad as Draco thought it would be. He drank it all. After a while, he managed to say, “Did you tell anyone else?”

“‘Anyone else’ worries too much,” said Potter with a laugh. “Every time I get so much as a headache, they think Voldemort is coming back to haunt us.”

Draco snorted.

It surprised Potter so much he grinned. “You shouldn’t laugh. There were eigh - seven pieces of his soul. If seven Voldemorts came to haunt me, it'd be no laughing matter.”

“You could make it a horror ride at a theme park. Voldemorts jumping out of dark corners and yelling curses. You’d make a fortune.”

“Only you would find that funny.”

“Come on, that must make you laugh.”

“A little.”

Draco leant back a little so he could get a better look at Potter. He could still remember the first time they met. Draco had thought he was all limbs and large glasses. He had thought Potter needed clothes that fit him better. Instead, Potter made the clothes fit him. Quidditch and Auror training filled him out. Attractive was what he was; was what he always has been. No matter what Potter said or didn’t say, did or didn’t do, it was hard to ignore him. 

Potter touched his elbow. Draco flinched. “Are you okay?” said Potter. 

A gaggle of teenagers entered. They were loud and drunk, and one of them was Potter’s godson. Draco recognised him from the pictures. _The Daily Prophet_ once diid an extensive double-page spread of Potter and his family. Teddy Lupin had been included in that report. 

The boy had looked much younger in the photo; neater with innocent round cheeks. The boy shuffling a few feet from him had long hair in a messy ponytail and a girl hanging off his arm with a besotted expression on her face. The group surrounding him looked like an entourage. Draco was surprised. 

“Don’t look at them.” Potter was staring at his drink so hard one would think he was casting a spell on it. 

“Aren’t you going to say hello? He’s a member of _Casa Potter_ , isn’t he?”

“Yes, but if he sees me here, he’s going to want to show me off like a prize puppy and make his famous godfather buy more drinks,” said Potter. “He’s told me he was spending Christmas with friends in New York but of all the pubs…”

Draco looked the other way when Teddy walked past them. There was once a time when Draco would have walked the same way Teddy Lupin walked; nose high and pockets full. But ever since the war, he loathed attention. His family had been dragged through so much bad press that Draco had taken the tabloids to court and won, even with the prejudice against former Death Eaters. Since the war, Draco had learnt how to keep his head down and to value the peace that came with being left alone. In surviving the war, Draco had actually become more…Potter-like. 

He nearly cackled at the revelation. 

Draco drummed his fingers on the tabletop, smirking. “Truly unexpected. I thought everyone under your wing became goody-two-shoes.”

“You can’t get them all,” said Potter mirthfully. “Teddy isn’t fond of taking the easy path. If he wants to discover who he is using this road, I’m happy to let him. As long as he doesn’t pull me along.” Draco raised an eyebrow. “We were at a Quidditch game; Hollyhead Harpies versus Puddlemere United. Teddy didn’t like the seats we got so he shouted at the top of his lungs that his godfather, Harry Potter, would like an upgrade please.”

Draco let out a bark of laughter. “Did you get the upgrade?”

Potter nodded. “Along with complimentary drinks and a huge match delay because people kept coming up to me for autographs and photos.”

“You really don’t like any of it, do you?”

“I hate it.”

The live band stopped playing as the other patrons began the countdown. Those on the dance floor whooped. Some had their cameras out. Teddy Lupin was already kissing his girlfriend. Ten. Nine. Eight.

“Do you think that trick would work here?” said Draco.

Potter stopped counting along. “What trick?”

Five. Four. Three.

Draco stood up. “HARRY POTTER WOULD LIKE A FREE LAGER PLEASE.”

Potter stared up at him in horror. Teddy Lupin dislodged himself in dazed confusion. The rest of the party roared. 

“Asshole!”

“Who the hell is Harry Potter?”

“Go home, you drunk!”

The huge pinata ball hanging above the dance floor exploded. Everyone broke out in celebration as it showered confetti over them. The band started up again with Auld Lang Syne. Friends and family hugged one another. Mobiles beeped with New Year’s greetings arriving by the thousands. Couples who had come together continued kissing and ignoring the world around them. 

Draco sat down with an indifferent shrug. “Too bad.”

When Potter finally pulled himself together, he laughed uproariously. Draco couldn’t help but smile along. “Happy New Year, Potter.”

Potter held up his lager and smiled fondly at him. 

“Happy New Year to you too, Drake.”

 

Like Blaise had said, the books Draco were looking for were in the Hogwarts Library. It took a lot of persuading on his part to get access to them as they were ancient texts. Unfortunately, they didn’t do him much good. 

They explained much more about Magick, which was the Old Magic Blaise had talked about a month earlier. But Blaise had also been right in that no one could manipulate Old Magic.

It was like nature. It existed like energy and a concept. It had the power to change things according to some unknown will, which many have interpreted into religion. There was no way any wizard could have used this against Potter. 

 

Godric’s Hollow was silent in the long winter. People conjured fires in their homes and chose to Apparate instead of stepping out at all. There was a hush surrounding the village the morning Draco arrive with little more than the clothes on his back and a slip of paper with a name and an address. 

Euphemia Potter lived in the street neighbouring the cottage her son, James, had once called home. Her husband, Fleamont, had passed away five year prior from a case of dragon pox. She was the only surviving Potter who might know what was going on. 

Draco trudged through the snow faithfully. 

The house he was looking for has two chimneys and sigils drawn on the borders of every window and door. There was a large all-seeing eye painted on the front door. Draco recalled seeing that symbol in his Divination textbook. That felt a lifetime ago. 

He walked up the unpaved walkway and knocked. There was no answer. 

He looked through the windows. There was no sign of Euphemia Potter. Instead, he spotted memorabilia spreading decades scattered across various surfaces. Photos of young James Potter on the mantelpiece, a frayed knitted replica of the family crest hanging over the fireplace, a Hogwarts Quidditch cup sitting on the coffee table, and pictures of James and his wife, Lily, everywhere else. Draco nearly choked when he saw a photo of Lily cradling a newborn by the windowsill. 

He backed away. 

“If you’re looking for the old lady, she’s at the cemetery.” It was a neighbour. She smiled at Draco and pointed down the road. “Walk along this path and take the first right. Tell her to come back home. She’ll catch her death out in this cold.”

Draco nodded his thanks and plodded away. 

Euphemia Potter was ancient. White curls curtained her small face and her eyes were so deep-set they looked forever shadowed. There was a certain sadness in her air, which Draco liked because for the first time since the world stopped making sense, he felt like he was with like kind. 

She spoke before he even approached her. “White day, isn’t it? Beautiful, if it wasn’t freezing.”

The tombstones were covered in snow. The smaller ones were buried so completely you could break your neck if you weren’t careful. Draco stumbled over one when he tried to get closer. 

“These are their graves, you know,” said Euphemia, gesturing at the twin mounds of snow.

Draco pointed his wand at them and melted away the white. His gaze turned baleful at the names carved into the granite. JAMES POTTER and LILY POTTER. 

“But they’re still alive,” he said.

Euphemia shook her head. “I gather you’ve seen them. Do you think that any part of them remained intact after Voldemort was done with them? No. They are dead.”

“What did he do to them?”

“He cast the Cruciatus on them. But when they refused to tell him anything, he cast the spell on their son as well.”

Draco’s lips turned white. He had to jam his hands deep into his pockets to stop himself from reacting violently, to remind himself that none of this was real. It didn’t happen. He swallowed the bile in his throat and said, “Where is Harry’s tombstone then?”

“He doesn’t have one. The child wasn’t buried. Everyone had been too shocked at what happened to James and Lily to arrange a funeral for a baby who did not spend much time in this world.”

Not even a grave. That was how the world treated its saviour.

Draco’s eyes burned.

Euphemia turned towards him, questions in her wrinkled face. “But that isn’t why you came to see me. You’ve some other concern on your mind. A matter which you thought, I, of all people, can shed light on.”

“Are you a Seer?” said Draco. 

“I have Seen a few times in my life.”

“You’re right. There’s something I want to ask you. I have reason to believe that your version of events the night Voldemort attacked James and Lily Potter isn’t true. What I want to know is if there is a possibility - even the slightest one - that the baby survived the attack.”

Euphemia’s gaze softened. Again, Draco detected from her overwhelming sadness. “Why are you so taken with this? You are a Malfoy. You are the enemy.”

“I’m not,” said Draco, surprising himself with the heat in his voice. 

Euphemia sighed and all at once, looked much older. “There was no funeral, but there had been a body. When we found Lily, she was screaming and gripping the baby so hard, he bled. But Harry was already dead. It is likely that my son and his wife broke when they saw their son murdered.”

Draco’s breath clung to the chill in a white mist. He wanted to say something. But his throat has closed up and despair was clutching at the bottom of his heart. 

“I’m sorry,” said Euphemia. “I am very, very sorry.”

 

Draco opened the door to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and without warning, got the air knocked out of him by a toddler slamming round his middle. 

“Rebecca.” George Weasley came running from the back room, hat tipped clumsily to one side and mustard smeared over his upper lip. He took the little girl by her arm and pulled her to his side with a grin. “Sorry ‘bout that, Malfoy. She’s always running away from me whenever she can.”

“I can’t imagine why,” said Draco drily even as he smiled at the girl, who was hiding behind her father’s legs and blushing. He only realised that George was gaping when he noticed the silence.

“Fred, come look see. Malfoy is smiling at my child.”

Draco nearly had a heart attack when Fred Weasley emerged from the backroom, looking as healthy as the next wizard and very much alive. 

Draco stumbled backwards, hands grappling for a hold and finding one on the counters. It had been the same when he first saw Severus. For fifteen years, he lived with the knowledge that these people were dead. For them to walk back into his life as if death had just been an evening stroll made his head and heart reel. 

“Will wonders never cease?” Fred laughed. He wiped his hands down the front of his robes and stuck out one hand. “It’s been a long time, Malfoy. What brings you to our humble establishment?”

Wizard Wheezes was by no means a humble establishment. They have outlets all over the country and was expanding into France. 

“I thought I’d drop by for a visit,” said Draco, trying not to look at Fred. 

In the world he knew, in his version of events, Draco has a tentative friendship with George. The George Weasley he knew was married with one son and one daughter and was the head of a successful business. But he never recovered from Fred’s death. 

George lifted an eyebrow. “Drop by for a visit? A bit out of habit for you, innit?”

They used to have drinks once a month. Draco enjoyed hearing George brainstorm for new joke ideas, and because George was generous enough to forgive Draco his sins, Draco tried to empathise with George’s loss. It was ironic now that when Draco felt loss most keenly, George no longer suffered any. 

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Draco turned to leave. 

“Malfoy, wait,” said George.

“Lupin said to ask if we saw you. You’re invited to Mirabella’s birthday this weekend,” said Fred.

Draco frowned. “Mirabella?”

“Yeah. Lupin and Tonks’s baby girl. You ought to remember the name of your niece.”

There was no Mirabella. There was only Teddy Lupin, orphaned when Lupin and Tonks fell in the Battle of Hogwarts. “Lupin and Nymphadora are still alive then?”

“Can you believe this guy?” said Fred with a caustic laugh. “Fifteen years since the war and he’s still holding grudges.”

Draco’s fingers tightened over the door knob. How many more people were ‘not dead’? “I have to go. Please forgive the intrusion.”

Why was the world that killed Harry bringing back so many from the dead?

 

Ireland won. For miles around, jubilant witches and wizards were dancing in their green shamrocks and shooting tiny fireworks into the sky. In the distance, Draco saw a tent shooting up with one elderly wizard clinging onto the tarp for dear life. 

On their front lawn, which came with the six-bedroom, three-toilet tent, the Weasley children were gleefully trying to set James Potter Junior on fire unless he told them who his new girlfriend was. 

At first, Draco had worried for his son. Slytherins have a long history of not getting along with Gryffindors; even more so between the Malfoys and the Weasley-Potter combination. Now, he smiled as Scorpius managed to light a small fire at the tail of James’s cloak while absentmindedly fighting off the fledgling affections of one Rose Weasley. 

Potter weaved in and out of the happy, drunk crowd with easy despite the heavy pail of water in his hands. He sidestepped the children, put out the fire with a cock of his head, and set down the pail in front of the tent and joined Draco. 

“Where’s Ron and ‘Mione?”

“Taking a stroll about the woods.”

“Ginny?”

“Asleep?”

“Already?” said Potter. An explosion went off behind him. A teenaged wizard in the opposite tent - the tips of his hair singed and his skin now charcoal black - threw his head back and laughed. Potter smiled bemusedly. “I can’t believe she’s sleeping through all this. So, what did you think of the game?”

“Lousy start,” said Draco. 

Potter pulled a face. “I know. I can’t believe Montgomery would drop the Quaffle like that. The Irish had really clumsy passes at the beginning too.”

Draco nodded. “It was almost painful to watch, but it definitely picked up after the Scots’s second goal. Do you remember Laurie’s sharp turn before he smacked the Quaffle with his broom-tail?” Potter gave an appreciative low whistle. Draco smirked in agreement. “A work of art.”

“The Scots make a pretty good team, but I still think it’s too bad Bulgaria lost out so early in qualifying. They had a good line-up.”

“They’re rubbish,” deadpanned Draco.

“No, they’re not,” Potter retorted hotly. “Chervenkov has more Quaffle goals than any other player in the league.”

“Quaffle goals don’t mean squat if the other team gets the Snitch. They never should have let Krum go, bad leg or no bad leg.”

“I’ll pass on the sentiment. I’m sure Viktor would appreciate it.” Potter chuckled and slumped against the side of the tent. Had it not been a magical tent, he would have fallen through, but this tarp had the sturdiness of a wall. “I’m really glad you came with us.”

Draco looked at Potter bewilderedly at the apparent non-sequiter. “Yes, well…there was no way I was missing the World Cup, was there? And Scorpius needs more friends. He sticks by himself far too much. I’d like for him to have more friends who can make him laugh.”

“Albus was quite the loner at first too, but I think your son will be just fine,” said Potter, smiling when Scorpius screamed as Albus snatched his scarf and made off with it. “He strikes me as the type who will become mature beyond his years.”

“Not like his father then,” said Draco with a depreciating chuckle.

“On the contrary, he reminds me of his father a great deal. Not the git he pretends to be, but the person he is when he thinks no one is looking,” said Potter. He grinned at Draco’s growing confusion. “I have an invisibility cloak.”

Draco flushed a deep red. “You filthy pervert.”

Potter smiled. “I needed to make sure you weren’t off doing more dastardly deeds.”

“Was that why I kept bumping into you in our final year?”

Albus tripped over his own feet. Potter ran over to make sure his son was okay. 

Draco observed them quietly, his breath misting when he exhaled. Winter chill was early this year. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself as Ginny Potter stepped out of the tent and occupied the spot previously taken by Harry. There was still sleep in her half-lidded eyes. She rubbed her arms to ward the cold away. They both smiled when Harry bent down to kiss Albus’s forehead despite the boy’s protest. 

“You should keep your distance.”

Her voice was so sharp in the silence that previously hung between them that Draco thought he might’ve imagined it. “Excuse me?” he said.

“From Harry. If you care about him, you should stay away,” said Ginny, pressing her fingertips to her lips.

Draco frowned. “What are you implying? I shouldn’t have to tell you that your marriage is safe from my meddling.”

Ginny blinked owlishly at him. “That wasn’t what I meant at all. I wasn’t trying to blame you for anything, except, perhaps, starting to love my husband.”

Draco pulled the most disgusted face he could muster. “I don’t love him.”

“That problem with Harry is that the more he loves you, the less he’s likely to tell you if something’s bothering him. He thinks he’s being kind. He thinks he’s protecting you, but he’s not. It’s nice knowing that he cares for you, but it hurts being left in the dark.” Ginny grimaced. “I hope that doesn’t happen to you.” She retreated indoors without another word. 

Draco bit his lip. He’s not sure what Ginny thought was going on between him and Harry. Sure, they’ve gotten a bit closer recently, but that was because Draco, as Harry put it, ‘has become less of a prat’. That, and Harry was just too nice. Draco never truly understood the concept of sincere friendship - one without mutual benefits - and if he was fond of Harry for introducing it to him, was that wrong?

An impulse to sneeze overcame him. Draco doubled over, hand over his nose and mouth in attempt to stifle it. He staggered forward when a weight was dropped over his shoulders. Draco grabbed the proffered outer cloak to keep it from falling and stared at Harry. “Don’t you need this?”

Harry shook his head. “It’s not that chilly for me.” He clapped Draco’s shoulder and grinned. “Come on, I see Ron and ‘Mione. Let’s see if they’re up for a pint.”

 

James Potter slept soundly in his bed. For a man who has lost grip on reality, he has many lines worrying his face. Draco wondered if he knew about his missing progeny; wondered if he had guessed the reason for Draco’s frequent visits. 

James looked far too much like Harry, from the slope of his nose down to the constantly-furrowed brows. Even after the war, it looked as though Harry had carried the weight of the world. It bowed his brows. 

Draco had liked to mock it. “That will age you, Potter. They will make you look like a grandfather before your time.” Sometimes, Harry would laugh and the bow lifted temporarily. Draco wondered when he had grown to live for these moments; the quiet ones when it was just the two of them slowing down while the world around them sped. 

Draco straightened in his seat when Lily entered the war, escorted by a medi-wizard. Her head twitched left and right, as if looking for enemies in shadows. The medi-wizard shot a tentative smile at Draco and coaxed Lily back to her bed. Draco stood up to help and reached for Lily’s arm. But Lily froze and dug her nails into Draco’s cheek. 

Draco yelped and tried to wrench out of her grasp. He twisted until she let go, leaving crescent imprints amidst a reddening splotch on the side of his face. Had he not been so tired, Draco would’ve thrown a fit. 

“Harry must have loved you a lot.”

Draco’s gaze snapped towards her. “What do you mean by that?”

Lily started to wail. She beat her hands on her legs and knocked the back of her head against the headboard. 

“What did you mean?” Draco demanded. 

The medi-wizard drew out her wand and muttered a long spell that slowly put Lily to sleep. Tucking her wand back into the belt of her white robe, she sighed. “Poor woman will never heal. Harry was her son. He died as a baby so don’t pay her words any mind.”

Exhausted, Draco nodded and rubbed at his neck. He wanted to believe that Lily knew something somehow. But even if that were the case, extracting information from her would be next to impossible given her condition. Draco gathered her cloak and left.

He never visited the Potters again. 

 

Though it pained him, Draco didn’t stop looking for clues. He tried approaching the problem from different angles. Maybe he’s been wrong in presuming that this was the work of one wizard. If several wizards joined their powers, perhaps they could - no, there was no such spell. All the texts insisted that Old Magic could not be bent to anyone’s will. 

If Blaise’s words all those months ago were to be believed, Harry was undoubtedly one of the ‘blessed’ people; one of the wizards loved by Old Magic. Harry’s magical ability was average, but he could draw an insurmountable amount of power whenever his life was endangered. Following that tangent, Draco decided to research on those with this ability. 

Albus Dumbledore was one such person. And apparently, so was Neville Longbottom. 

There was nothing for it. After months and months of burning newspapers and scoffing at his name, Draco had no choice but to go and talk to Longbottom. 

The Christmas holidays were coming to an end. Soon Professor Longbottom would return from his vacation. Severus Snape came to visit Draco, voicing his worries over Draco’s childhood spats with Longbottom becoming an issue during their discussion. 

“Give me more credit,” said Draco. “I’ve grown plenty since those days.”

“Perhaps too much,” said Severus. Draco was unused to the gentle tone in his voice. Marriage has done him worlds of good. “I have never seen you look so weary. Not even when you had to kill Dumbledore in your sixth year. What’s troubling you?”

Draco pursed his lips. “It’s none of your concern.”

“I’m worried about you.”

Draco laughed humourlessly. “So am I.”

One day before Longbottom was slotted to return to the castle, James Potter fell to his death. He had snuck out of the ward and jumped off the roof of St. Mungo’s. No one had seen him do it. A last act of free will. His was a silent and invisible death. 

 

Two weeks before the school semester started, Draco invited the Potters and Weasleys over for dinner at the manor. Astoria was against it but Draco has long tired of her opinion, seeing as hardly anything could coax her to be agreeable nowadays. Still, she stood by his side when their guests arrived. She smiled coldly at all the Half-blood children running over her carpeting. 

“Scorpius,” said Albus when he spotted him coming down the stairs, “you grew.”

Scorpius had a growth spurt a few weeks back and was a good three inches taller. Albus scowled at the disparity in height and hit Scorpius in the arm. Draco saw Astoria’s lips part in outrage but before she could say anything, Scorpius grabbed Albus in a headlock and laughed. 

“What are you going to do about it, shorty?”

Rose Weasley ran towards them, screaming that they should stop being so rough with one another while James draped himself over the chaise, yawning. 

“A television comedy, our children,” said Ron Weasley. 

“Good to meet you, Mrs. Malfoy,” said Hermione, smiling at Astoria. Astoria gave her the same cold smile and retreated to the dining room under the pretence of making sure things were ready. Hermione turned to Draco. “She seems nice.”

“Oh, Hermione, you really don’t have to be so polite,” said Draco. 

He invited them to have a seat. Harry nudged his son’s legs off the chaise to make room. When Draco summoned his house-elf for drinks, he caught Hermione shooting him a look and balked. “I give him days off. Once every week to see his lady friend.”

Harry and Ron roared with laughter, the bastards. As if they weren’t scared of her themselves. 

Halfway through the meal, Astoria excused herself, citing an emergency, and left to meet her lover. Draco couldn’t tell if his guests believed the lie. It was dismal to realise that he didn’t care either way. 

Then, Rose accidentally upset the tureen which led her into a small fight as she tried to outdo the house-elf in apologies. Draco laughed at the display until he felt tears in his eyes. He caught Harry grinning fondly. He has one arm around Ginny’s shoulder and Ginny was leaning into his side. Draco lost a bit of his smile. 

What was it like having a reliable spouse? What was it like having a decade with one another and still feeling love when the other stepped into the room?

When the night ended, Harry pressed a kiss to Ginny’s temple and sent her off with the children at the door. Draco pretended to be busy rearranging the documents they needed on the table because now that dinner was over, it was time for work. 

Harry had enlisted his help in figuring out the latest strain of poisons used by a group of terrorists up north and Draco planned on doing his best. He was re-reading the testimony from the latest victim when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Harry held out a glass of Firewhiskey. 

“A bit early of that, don’t you think?” said Draco even as he accepted the glass. 

“Don’t make me start alone,” said Harry, joining him on the sofa. “Thanks for tonight, by the way. It was excellent.”

“It’s no problem. It’s not like I had any hand in making the food or setting the table, which I’m sure if customary in your household,” said Draco absentmindedly as he scanned through the report. He was about to add some thoughts to his notes when Potter spoke up.

“Why don’t you take credit where credit is due once in a while?”

This made Draco look up. “A bit thick coming from you.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve got - inferiority issues,” he said with a nervous laugh. “‘Mione said it probably comes from growing up in a cupboard. Apparently it does wonders for deep-seated psychological issues.”

“How can you say that with a laugh?”

“It’s an idiosyncrasy that comes with being an Auror. You have to learn to laugh at stuff or you’ll go mad.”

“Isn’t that how some psychopaths start out?” teased Draco. 

“Who says I’m not one already?”

That got Draco’s attention. “Come again?”

Harry’s smile was wry. “Who says I’m not one already?”

Draco could laugh it off. Act like Harry was pulling his leg again. But there was no mistaking the plunging mood when Harry brought it up. Harry wasn’t laughing. Draco sat up straighter. “Where is this coming from?”

Harry was silent for awhile, his gaze drawn away to the crackling fire. Light reflected off his glasses, hid his eyes and made his expression unreadable. When he finally said something, his voice was laced with such weariness it made Draco’s heart clench. 

“Sometimes, I still see the people who died in the war. I see their faces amongst the crowd from the corner of my eye, and for a while, I forget they’re gone. But after that, I can’t stop thinking about them for days. Times like that, I wonder if I should’ve died with them. Since the war ended, the world feels so - so out of place for me.”

Draco felt a lump form in his throat. He’s lost some feeling in his fingers from digging them so hard into his palms. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. 

Harry Potter was the greatest wizarding hero of all time. He should be glorifying in that knowledge. He was so much more than he gave himself credit for. Draco wished he could convey that to him. If only there was some reasonable way to do it. 

Instead, Draco threw back his Firewhiskey. “You’re right, Harry. You _are_ crazy. But you know what? I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

Harry chuckled and brushed Draco’s arm in a fond gesture. “Do you think it would’ve been different if we’d become friends earlier?”

The heavy mood had lifted slightly but Harry was still strangely focused on him. In the air, Draco sensed an unvoiced question; a double meaning to his words. Draco could guess the second meaning, but he pretended not to. 

“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “Thinking about the past and asking ‘what if’s won’t solve anything. Your wife warned me about you, you know; said you would be bad for my health.”

Harry’s eyes went round. “Ginny did?”

“Yes. Now come on, you’re here to work.”

The two of them worked through the night and fell asleep in their seats just before dawn. Draco woke up because he slept in a bad position and his neck was killing him. Harry was sprawled over the table, drool staining the parchment under his cheek. 

Draco wiped his face tiredly. He didn’t think Harry understood how dangerous last night had been; how close Draco had been to losing it. The question he had flung out so casually was the same one Draco had never dared to ask himself. 

“ _Do you think it would’ve been different if we’d become friends earlier?_ ”

Draco wished it hadn’t taken twenty years for him to understand the answer to that question. At the same time, he wished he had never understood it because there was nothing he could do about it now. So, he bent over and shook Harry awake.

When Harry yawned, stretching languorously, and bade him a good morning with a lazy smile, Draco pushed back the tears welling up behind his eyes and asked if he wanted breakfast.

 

Longbottom was different than Draco remembered him. He supposed having the world worship your every step changed the way you walked, talked, even smiled. As it were, every change Draco could find in Longbottom made him want to smack the man’s face. Or at least hex him into Tuesday.

They met in Longbottom’s office, next to Greenhouse Three. Longbottom liked to be near his precious plants. Draco accepted the proffered cup of tea and took a sip -

“Like it? I got the recipe from Luna’s dad,” said Longbottom.

\- and promptly spat it back out. “It’s wonderful. Thanks.”

“I was surprised to see you here, Malfoy. You and I haven’t spoken in years.”

“Why do you think that is?” said Draco drily. 

“I don’t know. I always thought we got along well enough considering we were in different Houses and opposing sides in the war.”

Draco goggled at him. “Did you get knocked in the head? We were enemies in the war, not some schoolboys with a grudge.”

Longbottom took a long sip of tea. “You were a son trying his best to keep up with his father. You were never Voldemort’s man. Not the way your father was.”

“And how did you come by that conclusion?” said Draco, loosening his collar. It was far too warm in the office. 

Longbottom smiled. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

“I already think you’re crazy. Get on with it.”

“It was a voice.” Longbottom tapped his temple with a finger. “Up here. It talked to me about Voldemort, my magic, and strangely enough, you. At first, Dumbledore thought it was Voldemort trying to get into my head. He even had Snape try to teach me Legilimency. But the voice never persuaded me to do any harm. In fact, it helped me loads It taught me how to master difficult wand-work and defence spells no one thought to teach me. It warned me about what Voldemort was capable of and even saved me from some of his traps. If I hadn’t listened to that voice, Cedric Diggory would probably have died in the Triwizard Tournament. Can you imagine the tragedy that would have been?

“I understood that the voice told me all that to help me,” said Longbottom, “though I never got why it was so insistent on me helping you. It told me you were a good person who was just misguided, that if I tried I would actually find a good friend in you. The voice has never lead me astray so far, so I decided to trust it.”

Draco’s heart was racing. This was the biggest lead he’s had so far. Longbottom’s statement was proof that Old Magic had a part in Harry’s disappearance. The voice was probably a manifestation of it. If Longbottom could still hear the voice, Draco could ask it about Harry. He swallowed, trembling. “Have you ever conversed with the voice? Can you ask it questions?”

“Of course. It didn’t always answer but it always did its best to help. But I haven’t heard from it in a while. Not for several years now.”

Draco felt his heart sink. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I’ve asked professors, healers, magical theologians. None of them know what the voice is in the first place, much less why it stopped communicating with me.”

No. Longbottom was his last avenue of information. What could he do now?

Longbottom leaned forward. “Malfoy, you alright?”

Draco bowed his head to hide his face. “Thanks for seeing me, Longbottom. I’ll take my leave.”

“Malfoy, wait.”

“What?”

“There was something I wanted to ask you. A few months ago, Hermione said she went to your shop. She said you mentioned babysitting her children and talking about someone called Harry.”

“I know, I know. You’ve never heard of Harry Potter. He doesn’t exist,” said Draco, tiredly parroting the words he’s heard so many times, hearing them no longer hurt. 

“That wasn’t - I just…” Longbottom sighed. “I’m not sure if this has anything to do with the Potters, but the voice I told you about, it said that its name was Harry.”

 

Truth be told, Draco was surprised he was invited to the funeral. He hadn’t truly known James Potter before madness took him and the few times James had been awake to see Draco, Draco was certain he didn’t know who he was. But Euphemia Potter insisted that he come. After the strange revelation from yesterday, Draco needed an excuse to leave the castle for a bit. 

Draco didn’t know what to make of Longbottom’s confession. Was it really Harry, whose voice Longbottom heard all these years battling Voldemort? If so, what could explain that? Was it Harry’s magic? Or was it Old Magic? Or did Harry somehow become … a part of Old Magic? None of it made any sense. 

Draco pushed those thoughts aside as he entered Godric’s Hollow, head bent low to avoid the brunt of the wind and a charm cast over his ears to keep them warm. When he arrived at the cemetery, there were wizards still removing earth from the grave site. He must be early then. He made for Euphemia’s cottage. 

Although many have offered better grave sites for James, Euphemia insisted on using the one she had prepared all those years ago. “No matter how pretty you house them, the dead are still dead,” she’d said. 

Not for the first time, Draco thought Euphemia a strong woman. 

Euphemia met him at the door and showed him into her sitting room. “I’ll be waiting for the guests in the garden.”

Draco glanced around at the small living room. He took in the details of the paraphernalia he could only see through a frosty window the last time. He spent a particularly long time in front of a moving photo of James, Lily, and their baby. 

Baby Harry was struggling in his mother’s arms. He looked as if he wanted to be put down so he could go off and do better things than pose in front of a camera. When Draco smiled at the childish display, Harry looked right at him from the past and lit up. 

Draco drifted to the kitchen, where Remus Lupin and Sirius Black were chatting by the coffee-maker. They stopped when he entered and proceeded to stare at him. “What are you doing here?” said Black. 

Although Black was his first uncle, Draco’s never met him properly. Funny that the first words to come out of his uncle’s mouth were ones that accused him. Draco poured himself a cup of tea and ignored his spluttering uncle. 

“Sirius, stop,” said Lupin. 

Draco regarded his former professor. His cousin, Nymphadora, married this man, which meant Lupin was family too. And Sirius Black, his first uncle, was Harry’s godfather. Draco laughed. He couldn’t believe it took him this long to see the irony. 

If their families had been on good terms, the Potters and Malfoys could have been close. If there had been none of that stupid House or blood rivalry, it was possible that Draco and Harry would’ve been raised like brothers. 

Had Harry known this? Was this why he was so kind to Draco?

Draco disguised his sob with a cough. 

Black, misunderstanding his earlier laughter, grabbed the front of his shirt. “What are you doing at my best friend’s funeral?”

“Sirius,” said Lupin, forcing Black to release Draco. Black roared at Draco, threatening to throw him out. Lupin groaned and shoved him into the kitchen with an apologetic look at Draco. “I’m sorry. Sirius is still dealing with James’s death.”

“If he was so concerned about Mr. Potter, why didn’t he visit him at the hospital?” said Draco, pulling down his shirt to rid the creases made by Black’s fingers. 

“I’m sorry?”

“I went to visit the Potters a few days before Mr. Potter jumped. I never saw either of your names on the visitors’s log.”

“What were you doing visiting James and Lily?”

“That’s none of your business.” Then, remembering his visit to Fred and George’s shop, he added lamely, “I hope Mirabella had a good birthday.”

“Thank you. She did,” said Lupin slightly taken back.

Draco scratched his neck. He didn’t know what he was more uncomfortable with: negotiating small-talk with his cousin-in-law or convincing himself it was perfectly normal to attend a funeral with two other people who were supposed to be dead. He was certain Sirius Black had passed a long time ago. He remembered Bellatrix Lestrange bragging about it. 

What was Old Magic’s design in bringing back all these people from the dead? It didn’t make sense. 

Except that it did. 

Draco jumped up, startling both Lupin and Black, and strode out into the garden where Euphemia was bending low over her flowers. “You Saw something, didn’t you?” he roared.

Euphemia straightened, frowning so that the wrinkles in her old face grew more pronounced.

“The first time I met you, you were already waiting for me at the cemetery. You knew why I’d come to you. You know what happened to Harry.” Draco’s voice cracked. “You told me ‘sorry’, but you never told me why. You were apologising for keeping it from me, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Black came forward. “Mrs. Potter, what is he talking about? Why’s he here in the first place?”

“He’s here because he’s earned the right to the truth.” Euphemia directed a grave look at the earth beneath her feet as a gale swept past the little cottage in Godric's Hollow, the wind sounding like it was yelling ' _no_ '. 

 

Euphemia begged Draco to wait until after the funeral. But even after James Potter was put into the ground, Black refused to leave. Draco was certain one word from Euphemia would have sent Black away, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was the truth and he wanted it now. 

“I was a mess when Crabbe died in the war,” he said when Euphemia put a cup of tea in front of him. “I consoled myself saying that he wouldn’t have died if he hadn’t acted like a prat but the truth was, if I’d tried harder at stopping him, he’d still be alive. But Crabbe was just one person. Harry lost so many. That’s why he did it, wasn’t it?”

Euphemia nodded. “I’m surprised you managed to figure it out. I had hoped you would give up after seeing me. I suppose that was wishful thinking.”

“What are you talking about? Who’s Harry?” said Black.

“Your godson. James and Lily's little boy."

“Didn't he die a long time ago? Why are you bringing him up now?"

Draco told him why. Because Harry’s story mattered. He told them how Harry survived, how Harry had met Lupin and Black in his third year of Hogwarts, how they had bonded, how they had lost Black first, and then Lupin. The more he told them, the grimmer their expressions became.

“But that’s impossible,” said Black. “Neville Longbottom is the Chosen one.”

“He’s a replacement,” said Draco. “What I don’t understand is how.”

Euphemia set her tea aside. “I suppose you have come across the concept of Old Magic in your research. And I’m guessing you discovered that chief responsibility in Harry’s disappearance lies with it.”

“But how? Old Magic isn’t an interfering force. It simply exists,” said Lupin.

“It should have been impossible. But Harry is different. Old Magic loved Harry. That’s why it’s possible,” said Euphemia. “Wizards and witches loved by Old Magic are born with a great well of magic. It’s commonly misunderstood that these people receive Old assistance when their lives are in danger. In truth, the magic is all their own, but its regulated, because Old Magic is energy and balance. That’s why these ‘blessed’ people can only unleash their power in times of crisis. Harry was especially powerful in this respect. Not only was he descended from the Peverells from Fleamont’s side of the family, he also received some power from Salazar Slytherin’s heir, Voldemort, the night he tried to kill him.”

Draco gawked. He had not realised Harry had come from such an illustrious family. In his diligent research, he hadn’t thought to investigate Harry’s genealogy. What a foolish oversight! 

“If that’s the case, why couldn’t it regulate Harry’s magic as it’s always done? Why take him now?” said Draco. 

Euphemia’s eyes clouded up. “You know, Old Magic loved Dumbledore too. But Dumbledore managed to grow old and become part of this world. On the other hand, Death has touched Harry twice. Once on the night Voldemort visited this village, and once more during the second war. Harry didn’t tell you, did he? Voldemort killed him. It was Dumbledore and Old Magic that brought him back. Since then, a part of Harry has always remained with it.”

Draco froze. 

He saw Harry’s face again. 

“ _I can’t get of the feeling that … that I’m on the edge, and the winds are blowing, and I’m about to fall off. I just don’t know when.”_

 _“Times like that, i wonder if I should’ve died with them. Since the world ended, the world feels so - so out of place for me_.”

Harry had sensed it, but no one had paid attention to his words. 

Euphemia continued. “As you have discovered, Draco, Harry wanted too much of what was beyond the veil. Since he was so beloved, the Old Magic might have allowed Harry to change the world to the way you see it now in exchange of reclaiming him. Several unshakeable truths remain, like Voldemort’s second rise to power, Dumbledore’s death. The rest, however, Harry was free to change.”

“Harry gave his life to …” Draco paused to control the shaking in his voice. “To bring back the people he loved?”

“It’s not just his life. It’s his entire existence. Neville Longbottom took his place.”

“But it was still Harry who defeated Voldemort,” said Draco. “I asked Longbottom. He told me Harry’s voice was telling him what to do.” Euphemia looked surprised and flinched when Draco screamed. “ _Why?_ Why sacrifice so much? What about his parents? If he had a choice in the matter, why did they go insane?”

“I’m not sure, but my guess is that James and Lily’s parental bonds with Harry allowed him to see a world in which Harry lived - the world as it should be - and it drove them mad with grief.” 

Draco buried his head in his hands. Anguish roared in his head and he felt that he would go mad with it. “Why me? Why am I the only one who remembers? I’m no Seer like you.”

“When Harry forfeited himself, he must have felt a great swell of emotion for you. That emotion imprinted itself on you. That’s why you remember. A part of him is still with you.” Euphemia broke into silent tears. “You’re the only part of Harry that’s left.”

Draco felt numb. How could this be the truth? The truth was supposed to help him bring Harry back. How was he supposed to fight against Old Magic? How could he reverse a force more impregnable than Death?

“Why should we believe you?” said Lupin. There was a surprisingly cold edge to his voice. Of the two, Draco had expected Black to erupt. Lupin was shaking, lips white and forehead so creased that he looked ten years older. “If what you’re saying is true, James and Lily’s son sacrificed himself so that Sirius and I could live. That _cannot_ be-”

The legs of the chair screeched as Draco stood up. He was surprised at how tired he felt. Maybe it was the months of relentless research finally taking its toll. Maybe it was that he finally had the truth and it was crushing him. Either way, there was one thing he knew for sure: there was no resuming his life after this.

“Draco,” said Lupin. 

“I don’t care if you don’t believe it. I didn’t come here to explain anything to you. I have my answers. I’m leaving,” said Draco. 

“What will you do?” said Euphemia. 

Draco tasted blood in the back of his throat. “I don’t know.”

 

“ _I grew up in a cupboard, under the stairs._ ”

Draco woke up staring at painted ceiling of his bedroom. His left side felt cold and bereft. Astoria had returned home late last night, sliding in next to him beneath the covers. She must have risen very early to have disappeared before he woke up. Draco was just relieved not to have to converse with her.

He brought his fingers up to his left temple and chased the memory of the previous night.

It had been surreal. It had been Firewhiskies and drunken talk after hours of one-on-one Quidditch. Draco envied Harry’s stamina. He had not lost his edge with age. He was the one who suggested The Three Broomsticks, wiping sweat off his brow as Draco bent over, trying not to dry-heave. They had found an empty cubicle and huddled close under the flush of intoxication. 

Harry had magicked his hair blond with a matching moustache to avoid recognition. He lifted his chin, copied Draco’s accent and tried to assume airs. Draco kicked his shin, telling him that he was the heir of the most noble and ancient house of Black and that he should learn how to behave properly. What started out as a lesson in manners devolved into a very good impression of Draco's father, Lord rest his soul. 

Harry had hollered with laughter and spilled Firewhiskey all over himself and Draco. It'd been messy and disgusting when his pants started to stick to his crotch but Harry had looped an arm around him. Draco’s mental signals had started wailing, but he'd felt too comfortable and sluggish to pull away. 

His left side had never felt so warm. 

They’d talked the night away, about everything and nothing. By the time they decided to pay Draco was sure they’d exhausted all conversation for a month. 

In front of The Three Broomsticks, several steps away from their Apparating spot and under the dimness of the light splashed onto them from the small tavern windows, Draco could’ve sworn he felt the press of lips against his head. That warm press was a sensation Draco had heretofore never felt. 

Narcissa was a firm advocator of personal space, even with Draco. While her love for him can never be doubted, she was never one for hugs or kisses and discouraged coddling even when Draco was a child. She was very similar to Lucius in that regard. 

This was why the kiss to his temple was a sensation so strange, he was still reeling when he arrived home. 

While preparing for bed, Draco had found himself thinking back on the times he detested Harry. Even after the war, there had been no love lost between them. It certainly didn’t help that the _Prophet_ continued to publish articles about how perfect Harry Potter was. 

Draco had been willing to bet that Harry never had to question his place in life. Bet he had _Saviour of the Universe_ stamped across his forehead the moment he popped out of the womb. 

Then, Harry had done this interview for the _Quibbler_. No doubt it was a favour for Luna to help boost dropping sales. In it he revealed: “I grew up in a cupboard, under the stairs.”

Draco had scarcely believed it. 

Several days after that issue of the _Quibbler_ had come out, the _Prophet_ bought the rights to re-print it. Soon, the entire nation knew about their hero’s odd childhood. A bedroom under the stairs, going without food as punishment, verbally and emotionally abused by relatives who hated magic and looked the other way when their son bullied him. For the longest time, wizarding Britain held a pity party for Harry Potter. 

That was probably what had driven Harry to New York for New Year’s. 

Meeting him at the bar had been a complete coincidence. Draco remembered feeling awkward because he didn’t know where he stood with Harry. All this time, he’d thought Harry had grown up on silk cushions and adoration. It had been disconcerting to find out that all his assumptions had been false and baseless. 

The war had separated Draco from the world he knew. He had been disillusioned and had broken nearly all previous connections because he couldn’t stand his former friends casting him side glances that screamed, ‘Look how the mighty have fallen’. Blaise and Goyle were the few exceptions, and of course, Astoria, who married him under the delusion of a childhood crush. 

Draco hadn’t cared at the time. He had been interested only in obtaining progeny to shut his mother up. He hadn’t cared that he had doomed their marriage by shutting Astoria out. He had gone years without forming connections with anyone, beyond his son. 

That night in the pub, Harry’s overt friendliness might have broken him. 

To be fair, Draco had put himself in a vulnerable spot with Harry. He wasn’t sure why. Guilt, maybe. Shame. Embarrassed that in their formative years, he had bullied a boy with such a distressing childhood. That Harry didn’t censure him was a miracle in itself. Draco found himself clinging on to whatever mercies Harry allowed him. 

Draco touched his head again. 

Now, after years of stumbling and covering up insecurities with patchy arrogance, he felt…

The door of his bedroom was flung open. Draco half-expected Astoria, but it was Narcissa with the breakfast tray. “I just heard the most interesting piece of gossip from my cousin in Paris. Apparently, the Weasley boy is planning to branch out his joke shop. Can you imagine? A Weasley running a shop as far as Paris? I remember a time a line like that would’ve brought the table down laughing.”

Draco wiped a hand over his face. “Of course I know, mother. George has been talking about France for the past month. You would know too if you ever listened to anything I say over dinner.”

The years have been kind to Narcissa Malfoy. She was beautiful and regal in her old age, but the harshness of her scowl then transformed her face. “Is it my fault I abhor the company you keep nowadays?”

Draco gave his mother an incredulous look. “Yes.”

Narcissa set the tray onto the table with a loud clang that had Draco wincing. “I still don’t understand why you surround yourself with riffraff when Blaise comes to call on you every other day. His daughter fancies you, you know. You inherited your father’s good looks. Back in the day, your father used to attract witches, left and right -“

“Mother,” said Draco with a heavy sigh, “aside from discreetly suggesting I take a minor for a mistress, is there a reason you’ve chosen to grace me with your presence so early in the morning?”

Narcissa’s expression turned sour again. Even more so. “You have a guest.”

Draco jumped out of bed. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

“It’s Potter.” Narcissa spat out his name like a curse.

Draco’s eyes widened with surprise. He didn’t remember making plans with Harry for today. Nevertheless, he tugged off his nightclothes and fitted a piece of toast between his teeth as he slipped into some decent robes. 

“Look at you,” said Narcissa. “All in a flurry and for what? To meet a man who ruined our family.”

“He saved my life.”

“And I saved his.”

Draco stared at his mother as he buttoned up his robes, trying to decide if she had finally gone mad. “He’s my friend now, mother.”

“He takes up all your time. Didn’t you just spend all of yesterday with him?”

“I enjoy spending time with him.”

“You’re becoming dependant on him.”

“And if I am?”

“You will get hurt.” The sorrow and finality that punctured Narcissa’s voice stopped Draco at the door. “I’ve never seen you get so attached to anyone. That’s why I know that when he leaves you, you won’t recover.”

Draco smiled. “You don’t have to worry, mother. Harry would never leave me.”

 

After discovering the truth at Godric’s Hollow, Draco packed up his things at Hogwarts and returned to the manor. He managed his apothecary, went out for drinks with Blaise, accompanied his mother to several opera openings and stopped talking about Harry Potter.

Everyone was relieved, glad that Draco was done with this madness. Never mind that his smiles have hollowed ever since, or that he has retreated so far into himself he hardly ever spoke anymore. 

Draco himself didn’t see his cheeks hollow and his once form-fitting clothes sag due to the exhaustion of troubled nights and absent appetite. He didn’t notice Narcissa growing pale with worry and Astoria staying home more often out of concern. He was convinced that he had them all fooled. “I’m okay,” he would say. Aside from the nightmares that had been waking him up, dry-heaving and the sobs that reduced his body to tremors. “I’m perfectly alright.”

 

Days bled into weeks, which bled into months. 

Draco lost count of time as he drew out his own self-destruction. Before he knew it, it was May and the invitation to return to Hogwarts was in the mail. It was the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. There was a celebration every year and those who had taken part in the battle were always invited back. 

Draco turned his face away when Astoria requested that he attend it with her. 

“I never asked you for anything,” she said. “Not for the love or attention that was rightfully mine when I married you. Do this for me.” Draco was unmoved. Astoria’s beautiful face went cold as she added, “Scorpius expects us to be there.”

Draco nodded tiredly as he stared into the empty fireplace. He was suddenly struck with the image of parchment strewn all over the table and Harry Potter drooling on them. He drank deeply from his glass and waved Astoria away. 

Astoria pursed her lips. “Look at you. You’re pathetic. This isn’t the man I married. He walked as if everyone was beneath him and I admired him for that confidence. What happened to him?”

“He fell in love.”

Astoria was stunned into silence. Draco could tell that she wanted to ask ‘who’, but she was nearing ten notches on the infidelity belt. He watched her leave without so much as a shudder. He was glad he chose such a strong woman to be the mother of his child. She was the type of person who could live without love. 

 

This was suffocating. 

Scorpius had left the Slytherin table some time ago and Astoria had gone to mingle with the Zabinis. On his right, Goyle was ogling Pansy Parkinson, who had spent her latest divorce settlement on a plunging neckline. On his left was Blaise’s daughter making doe eyes at him. 

Draco grabbed his things and walked out of the Great Hall. 

Along the way, he saw the Creevey brothers regaling their impressionable children with heroic tales of the great Neville Longbottom. Opposite them were Cedric Diggory and Cho Chang, arms around each other’s waists, as they recounted their adventures as part of Dumbledore’s Army.

At the far end of the Gryffindor table, the Longbottom and Weasley families were fending of the zealous attentions of eager students. Longbottom, Ron, and Hermione were the main instruments of ending the Second Wizarding War. They were heroes. They were not getting any peace tonight. 

Draco was a little surprised to see Scorpius happily ensconced between Rose Weasley and one of her brothers. One of Longbottom’s sons sidled up next to Scorpius and slid an arm around his shoulders. Draco was momentarily struck by the green eyes on Longbottom Junior but quickly shook it off as another one of his delusions. 

When Longbottom caught him staring, Draco made a sharp turn towards the double doors. He heard, “Malfoy, wait!” but Draco didn’t heed it. He left the light, the cheer, and the laughter behind and climbed up the winding stairs, not caring where it led. 

When the cold air struck his face, Draco breathed in until his lungs burned. After making sure no one had followed him, Draco sat down and swung his legs over the battlements of the castle. The night wind picked up and nearly threw him back onto safe ground, but Draco held on until the wind slowed.

Draco drew out a sheaf of parchment from under his robes. It was full of his handwriting. The first paragraph read _This is the story of the Boy Who Lived_. He had written it many months ago when he had been afraid that he would forget Harry like the rest. He’d found it under his mattress last night and laughed for a whole minute at his foolishness. 

The wind swept the manuscript from his loose fingers towards the forest. Further and further away, his story spiralled until the darkness brought on by night swallowed it. Draco felt his heart lift a little. The back of his neck prickled. 

“I wanted to kiss you that night,” he said to no one. He fancied that someone was listening to him; that something in the dark chasm below or in the air around him understood his words. He liked to think that it was Harry. “That night, when you asked if it would have been different if we’d been friends earlier. I wanted to tell you that I didn’t care because we’re friends now.” Draco felt too tired to even cry. “How could you do this to me, you complete and utter prat.”

“Malfoy?”

A loud cheer erupted behind him in the Great Hall. The festivities continued.

“What do you want, Lupin?”

The older wizard stepped closer. “I was worried when I saw you running out of the hall. You look terrible.”

“And you reek of chocolate. Congratulations on your fourth year as the Defense professor, by the way. You broke the record by a mile.”

“Draco -“

“Don’t, Lupin. Just don’t. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Enough with the theatrics,” said Black, joining Lupin. “Sorry, Remus, I know you said you’d handle it, but I couldn’t stand by without saying anything. We’ve lost friends in the war too, Malfoy. James and Lily were our best friends. Do you think we’re happy with how their lives turned out? That their choices were either death or madness?”

“You make the mistake in assuming I care about what you think,” said Draco. “All you are to me is a reminder of why Harry is gone. If Harry didn’t love you two so much -“

“Sacrifices happen,” hissed Black. “Loss happens. You dishonour Harry by regretting his choices. He’s made them. All you can do now is deal with it.”

“No, _you_ try dealing with the absolute death of the person you love. Harry’s friendship was the best fucking thing that ever happened to me and now it never happened. I can't even mourn,” said Draco. “I can’t pretend I’m alright with what he did. It eats me inside every day not knowing why I’m the only one who remembers. Of all people, why me? Why ruin _me_?”

“Draco, you’re not making sense. Come back over the edge and listen to reason,” said Lupin.

Draco laughed bitterly. “Reason doesn’t apply here. I’m tired. I’m so, so tired.”

“Malfoy, don’t you dare jump,” said Black. “Think about your family. Your son.”

“Did you think I spent these months twiddling my thumbs? I’ve tied up all the loose ends. Astoria is more than capable of taking care of Scorpius. In any case, I’ve not been a good father to him. Whoever Astoria chooses to marry will be a vast improvement.”

“Think about -“

“No, I’m done thinking.” Draco bowed his head and stared at the darkness beneath his suspended feet. It was just darkness and yet, he could feel it protesting. “I just don’t fucking care anymore.” He pushed himself off the battlement and allowed gravity to drown him like a ravenous beast. Wind whipped through him so loudly and fiercely it sounded like shrieks in his ears. 

Draco closed his eyes. Once he hit the ground, it will all be over. He won’t feel any more pain. 

 

Draco woke up staring at the painted ceiling of his bedroom. His first feeling was disappointment. If a twenty-foot fall was not enough to kill him, what was?

He tried narrowing his focus to detect pain in any of his extremities, but he felt perfectly fine. The nausea and headache that have been his constant companions since discovering the truth were absent. Draco hoped that was a good thing.

“That was a reckless thing you did.”

Draco hasn’t head that voice in years. He pushed himself into an upright position and was met with the sight of his deceased, former headmaster, enjoying a cup of tea. 

Briefly, in his mind’s eye, Draco saw Dumbledore tumbling over the battlements. He heard _your fault, your fault, you fault_ chanting in his ears all through the funeral. He remembered the nightmares that succeeded it. 

Seeing him lounging in his bedroom now, Draco came to the logical conclusion. “So I’m dead then.”

“Not quite,” said Dumbledore, because he never once gave Draco the answer he wanted.  “You are somewhere in between.”

“I don’t understand.”

Dumbledore smiled. “I have to commend you for coming this far. Very few wizards have managed to reach the platform dividing life and death. The night before Voldemort’s defeat, I met with Harry just like I am with you right now. He had the choice of staying here and enjoying the peace of death after a life of hardship, or go back. He was the only one who ever chose the latter.”

Draco licked his lips. “Is he here?” His heart skipped when Dumbledore nodded. Draco scrambled to his feet. “Where?”

“I don’t know. This is your house, isn’t it? Where do you think he would be? Mr. Malfoy,” said Dumbledore before Draco could rush out. His eyes glinted behind half-moon spectacles. “You have the same choice, as well, and you will have to make it soon.”

Without giving an answer, Draco pushed open the door and went. 

 

Draco checked the kitchen and the dining room despite knowing full well that Harry wouldn’t be there. Months of looking into every corner and not finding Harry has made Draco wary of raising his hopes. But as he walked into the sitting room and saw the dark-haired figure sitting on the sofa, round frames settled low on the bridge of his nose and flipping idly through the latest _Prophet_ , Draco’s heart took a large leap. 

He cautiously took a seat opposite Harry, afraid that moving too fast would cause Harry to disappear like an illusion. 

The front page of the _Prophet_ declared the happy anniversary of Voldemort’s defeat. Under the headlines was a large picture of Neville Longbottom, grinning. 

Draco surprised himself by speaking first. “I suppose you think yourself clever. You change the world as you like, pull the disappearing act and in your place, you leave that oaf.”

Harry lowered the newspaper and smiled. “Hey, that’s my friend you’re talking about.”

“It’s still you, isn’t it? Everyone just thinks it was Longbottom who killed Voldemort.” Draco paused, thinking back to the conversation that had led him to this. “He said you talked in his head.”

“I did. After I left, I started talking to Neville to convince him he was the Chosen One. His mind filled in all the blank spots on its own.”

“Truly, you would’ve felt at home at Slytherin.”

“Aw, Drake, you know how I get when you flatter me.” Harry looked around the sitting room as if seeing it for the first time after a long while. “It feels like just yesterday we were sitting here reviewing poisons. Strange, isn’t it? After all the time we’ve spent together, that night was the one that stuck to me most.”

Draco clenched his jaw in a reflex denial and released it just as quickly. “Don’t play. We both know that night meant something.”

Harry’s smile gained a sad edge. “You’ve lost weight.”

Draco snapped. “Whose fault do you think that is? I wake up one day and my best friend was gone. No explanation - nothing. Everyone tried convincing me that I was crazy. Sometimes I wondered if I twas; if you had been some sweet dream I'd conjured up. Then, I discover that it was all. your. fault.” Draco felt a burning sensation behind his eyes and squeezed them shut. No way he was crying in front of him. “You made me like this, you stupid, overbearing, thoughtless sonofabitch.”

Heavy silence fell between them. 

When Draco opened his eyes, Harry was standing by the closed French windows that led out to the balcony. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You should have forgotten like the rest.”

“So why didn’t I?”

“Because I didn’t want you to.”

“What?”

“It was an accident. At that last moment, I thought about what it would be like if you forgot me too, and I hated it. When I realised what I’d done, it was too late. I couldn’t undo it.”

“But what about your family? Your best friends? How could you be alright with _them_ forgetting you?”

Harry’s smile was falsely sheepish. “I’ve known Ron and Hermione and Ginny all my life. I’ve had so many good times with them and I’ve made my peace. But I was just getting to know you. After twenty years, I finally got to know you and I …” He sighed. “I wasn’t ready to let go.”

Draco swallowed thickly. “What about your children? How could you leave them?”

“I could ask you the same.”

Draco stiffened. “We are not making this about me. I deserve to know why you did this.”

“You already know. You’re the only one I’ve ever told. I’m glad I could give Sirius and the others their lives back. Did you see how happy they were?”

“Why is their happiness worth more than yours? Or mine?”

“I didn’t know you loved me.”

And there it was, that thing they have been dancing around. 

“As for my children, Neville and Ginny are taking good care of them. They might look a bit different, but they’re still my children.”

“Longbottom Jr. has green eyes,” said Draco. 

Harry chuckled. “Yeah, I did always like my mum’s eyes on James. Couldn’t bear to change them.”

“Don’t you think you’re being terribly unfair to Longbottom? He thinks those are his children.”

“This entire situation is unfair. It’s unfair that I’m able to do this. It's unfair that everyone has their memories altered to indulge my selfishness. But that’s a small price to pay for so many lives. Snape, Lupin, Cedric - they all have a chance to have a family. They make this worth it.”

“No, they don’t, you self-sacrificing bastard. Do you have any idea how much I hated them all after I found out the truth?”

Anguish softened Harry’s expression. Draco almost felt triumphant for putting it there. 

“I’m sorry. I honestly thought you would give up after finding nothing.”

“When you left, you made everything unbearable. If only I hadn’t known you,” said Draco, dropping his head into his hands. 

“You have a choice.” Harry threw open the French windows with a wave of his hand. 

Draco gasped when he saw the Great Hall in front of his balcony. He saw his friends and their children laughing and eating at their House tables and the professors chatting at the high table. This was happening as he sat here with Harry. His heart squeezed at the sight of Scorpius, who was being coerced into an eating competition by Albus Longbottom.

Draco turned to Harry. He was looking at his children. The longing on his face was so naked that sympathy quickly displaced Draco’s anger. Harry must have watched them often like this. 

“Dumbledore must have told you about the choice. You’re not exactly dead. You can choose to go back and live a normal, happy life," said Harry.

In the Great Hall, Scorpius wrenched away from the drunken embrace of James Longbottom to ask Astoria if she’d seen Draco. Scorpius’s reaction was the one Draco had feared the most when he decided to jump. His son would never forgive him. Draco watched as Astoria shook her head and returned to her conversation with Pansy Parkinson. 

“And you will forget all about me. I pulled some strings. If you go back this time, you will be like everyone else. You won’t remember anything about me. Harry Potter will cease to exist.”

“What about Black and Lupin? They know about you. Your grandmother too.”

“I can easily wipe Sirius and Lupin’s memories. I can’t do anything about my grandmother. She’s a Seer. It’s not my place to meddle with her mind.”

“But you have no qualms about messing with everyone else’s?”

“I don’t. Don’t pretend like you would have done any different. Just like you, I couldn’t bear the world. The difference is that I have the power to change it.”

Draco punched Harry square across the jaw. Auror reflexes should have helped him evade the obvious arc of Draco’s fist, but Harry fell to the ground with a grunt. He ran a thumb over the forming bruise. 

“You have no right, Harry. No right at all. But Merlin help me, I’ve gone stupid for you. If you can see this,” said Draco, pointing at the celebrations beyond the window, "you could see what I was doing all this while. You must’ve seen the wreck I’ve become without you.”

“As long as you don’t remember me -“

“I’ll still be miserable. I just won’t know why.”

Harry climbed to his feet. “If you stay here, you will die in that world. You won’t ever get to talk to your son, your mother, your wife, or your friends ever again.”

As if on cue, Black broke into the Great Hall and ran up to Astoria. Draco saw Astoria turn white. She pushed past Black and rushed out of the hall. Draco’s never seen her this panicked before. 

Draco felt emptiness creep back into his chest. “You want me to leave?”

Harry was not looking at him. “You should go. You still have a chance at a happy life.”

“I didn’t ask you what you think I should do. I asked you what you wanted me to do.”

“Does it matter? I just don’t want you to regret whatever you decide.”

Before them, the celebrations were reaching a crescendo. Colin Creevey, who has always been a lightweight, swayed as he stood on his seat and cast fireworks into the air. “ _Three cheers for the Chosen One! Three cheers for the one who fought to save us all! Hurrah for Neville Longbottom!_ ”

The final cheer echoed around the entire hall. Everyone raised their goblets and drank. In that moment, Draco was certain only Harry Potter could smile at such a spectacle, despite having fought and sacrificed and died so they could have a better life than his. But Draco refrained from commenting when he saw Scorpius raise his goblet after everyone else put theirs down. 

Although the din in the hall was at an obscene volume, both Draco and Harry could hear the young boy as clear as day. “ _Hurrah for the Boy Who Lived._ ” Scorpius lifted the goblet to his lips and drank. 

Harry gaped, green eyes wider than Draco has ever seen them. 

Draco shook his head. “You truly are an idiot.”

 

Scorpius leapt off his broom and ran for shelter. He could hear Nott screaming at him through the thunder, but he wasn’t having any of it. Not today. Not when it’s both raining and the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. 

Classes have been cancelled for the rest of the day because the teachers were all helping to finalise the finishing touches on the Great Hall decorations. Nott had commandeered this time for extra Quidditch practice. 

It was a challenge, really. Everyone knew Scorpius Malfoy, Slytherin’s prize Chaser, didn’t play in the rain, much less a storm. 

Lightning cracked and one of the Beater’s broom caught fire. 

“You’re going to get kicked off the team if you keep this up,” said Rose, closing her book when Scorpius claimed the seat next to her on the bench. 

“Yeah? I’d like to see anyone else on this shitty team try to get pass James and Albus in next week’s game.” Scorpius shucked off his waterlogged uniform, scrunching his nose when it fell with a wet splotch. Rose edged away from him to avoid stray droplets of rain. 

“You can be a real arse when you’re in a bad mood.”

“Really? I had no idea,” said Scorpius drily as he wrung his uniform and rainwater enough to fill a bucket poured out onto his feet. “Forgive me if I’m not in a very festive mood. It’s only the anniversary of my father’s death. No big deal.”

“All our parents had loved ones who died on this day years ago and they’re not going around making people feel bad with sarcastic remarks.”

Scorpius snorted. “Name me one good friend your parents lost in the battle.”

Rose paused to consider. 

“See? They keep saying how many people died in the war but for some reason, most people here didn’t lose anyone close. Well, Father lost Crabbe, but from what I heard, Crabbe had it coming.”

“Insulting the dead is low.”

“What? Your father said it.”

“And mum hits him every time he does it. By the way, have you asked your mother about summer?”

Scorpius nodded. “I’m all yours for August till the start of term. Mother’s not going to be around anyway. She and grandmother are going to visit some friends in Scotland.” Socrpius stretched out his hands. “I wish they’d gotten along this well before Father died. Maybe he wouldn’t have jumped.”

“You can’t honestly think your father jumped because of that. His death was probably what brought them together.” Rose brought her feet up to the edge of the bench and hugged her knees. The position displayed her long, wonderful legs for all the world to see.

Scorpius narrowed his eyes and dropped his wet uniform on her legs. 

“Hey,” said Rose, jumping to her feet and wringing out the wet stains on her skirt. “Merlin, you can be so childish sometimes.”

“Everyone agrees my father jumped because he’s gone mad. Months of searching for a man who didn’t exist. Yeah, I’d say those are grounds for psychosis. That’s why I can’t get angry with him. Much as I want to,” said Scorpius. “I knew my father. He probably thought dying was the best solution.”

“If you aren’t mad, why are you in a bad mood every year?” said Rose.

“I said I wasn’t mad. Doesn’t mean I can’t brood.”

Rose rolled her eyes. “You really are such an arse.” Twenty feet away, Nott touched ground and marched towards Scorpius. Rose pecked Scorpius on the cheek. “I’m going to the library. Come find me when he’s done screaming at you.”

Scorpius nodded. The warm feeling on the back of his neck flowered. He looked from side to side, wondering if someone was watching him. But there was no one. He brushed it off as his imagination and stood up as his team captain came to talk his ear off. 

 

Draco watched bemusedly as his son turned the tables on Nott on listed down the dangers of flying during a storm. Scorpius definitely has a gifted tongue for sarcasm. Draco swelled with pride. Harry approached him from behind and draped himself over Draco’s back. 

“You’re heavy,” said Draco without moving his gaze,

Harry grinned but did not remove himself. “Are you sure you’re alright leaving him on his own?”

Draco watched as Scorpius left the pitch without waiting for Nott to think of a suitable comeback. He was on his way to the library when he was tackled round the middle by Hugo Weasley. Dominique and Louis Weasley came bounding right behind their cousin. Soon, Scorpius was running to avoid being smothered by the lot of them. It was funny how fond the second generation of Weasleys were of Scorpius.

Scorpius sprinted up the steps, trying to keep his broom out of Louis’s reach. “ _Dammit, why won’t you all leave me alone?_ ”

“ _You can’t escape us, Scorpius_ ,” said Dominique.

“ _You’re gonna marry, Rosie, aren’t you? You’re practically family_ ,” said Hugo gleefully.

Draco laughed as Scorpius scrambled into the library, earning a glare from the librarion, and stared beseechingly at Rose moments before the other Weasleys caught up and wrestled him to the ground with a triumphant roar. 

“He’s not on his own. He’s got more than enough people watching out for him,” said Draco, stepping away and closing the windows, shutting off his view to the mortal world. 

He looked back at Harry and barely registered their surroundings shifting. 

This time, they were in the New York bar where Draco had met Harry during New Year’s Eve. Draco took a seat amongst the row of empty stools while Harry poured them lagers from the other side of the counter. 

James Potter walked in and sat two seats away from Draco. Whenever Harry stood side-by-side with James, they looked like brothers. Draco couldn’t explain it but he found it slightly disconcerting. Just as well, James Potter didn’t visit them very often, preferring to watch the world on his own or with Dumbledore, whenever Grindelwald wasn’t bogarting the old headmaster’s time. 

“What brings you here, dad?” said Harry.

James was beaming. “I’ve just come back from talking with your grandmother. According to her, Lily will be coming along soon.”

“That’s great news.”

Draco shook his head. “Everything is so backwards here. We get excited when people are about to die.”

“You’re alright,” said James, looking at Draco warmly. “You two keep each other company. I’m the odd one out here.”

Draco looked away, flushing. Harry knocked shoulders with him and grinned as he sat next to him. “Call me when mum arrives.”

James nodded and left the room with his drink. 

“So, what do you think about eternity with me so far? Bearable?” said Harry. 

“Quite. Over here, it’s impossible for either of us to have affairs with anyone else to talk behind one another’s back. I’d say this is the best relationship I’ve ever had with anyone in my life.”

Harry laughed. His face took on a more sobering quality when he said, “You didn’t have to stay. I didn’t expect that of you after what I’d done.”

Draco snorted. “ _Please_. That world is crazy. I’d be stupid to want to be part of it any longer than I had to. Besides…”

Draco thought back on all the experiences he had with Harry; the good and the bad. It was hard to deny that there’s always been something between them. That it flowered into a friendship that surpassed a simple acknowledgement of one another had been a blessing on Draco’s part. But the fact that it stopped just short of lovers had made Draco desperate; for more, for everything it could be, and for it just as it was. 

“…living in that world without you, _that’s_ unbearable,” said Draco. 

And now, it was just the two of them, in a bar, with ice-cold lagers and the world before them to watch. 

Draco felt heat rise to his cheeks when Harry directed a broad, honest smile at him. “Thanks, Drake.”

“Not at all,” said Draco with an easy smile. Everything from now on would be easy. 

A world away, Scorpius was kicked out of the library, along with the Weasleys (except Rose), and was banned from it for a week. Snape begged off decoration duty so he could check up on his wife and baby. Lupin and Tonks took a week off work to tour Italy while Sirius Black babysat Mirabella for them. Neville Longbottom announced that he was going to publish a book about his life story. Fred and George Weasley celebrated the 25th anniversary of their joke shop. And so on. And so on. 

And all was well. 


End file.
